


Bromwicham - Melpomene and Thalia bid you welcome

by golden_bastet



Series: The god of beginnings and endings [1]
Category: Sè jiè | Lust Caution (2007), The Professionals
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_bastet/pseuds/golden_bastet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War is hell; but hell is what Raymond Doyle is familiar with. He has had a lifetime full of hells, from being disowned and driven away by his father, to growing up alone and isolated in reformatories and state institutions. He developed a tough skin to keep the world at bay, and uses that toughness to protect the one thing – an innate artistic creativity - that belongs to him.</p>
<p>As the winds of war, then occupation, sweep across the land, his gift eventually leads him to a resistance group looking for a target to make an example of. The occupying forces are too well guarded, but there are other targets to make an example of. The target they zero in on: the mercenary, collaborator, and traitor known as William Bodie.</p>
<p>And thus starts the role of a lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes:** A few years back, I read a wonderful story, [_Rule Britannia_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/828624) by fajrdrako. When I first read it, it reminded me of Ang Lee’s 2007 movie, [_Lust, Caution_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lust,_Caution_%28film%29). Although in the end it didn’t go in that direction – though I really enjoyed the story, reread it periodically, and recommend it highly – I still wondered how a Pros story inspired by _Lust, Caution_ would turn out.
> 
> And ‘inspired’ it is: several main points in the film have been changed, so it’s not truly a straight redo. 
> 
> I’d also like to thank several people:
> 
>   * Betae Extraordinaire, **Solosundance** and **Anna060957**
>   * My wonderfully patient artist, **Krisserci5**
>   * **Moonlightmead** , for several discussions that put some bugs in my ear *hugs*
>   * **Minori_k** , for mentioning Anthony Andrews as Bodie #1! :D
>   * Slantedlight for letting me borrow the concept of a bespoke gun (because really, never had heard of that before)
>   * and of course, the mods of for being crazy and fun enough to do this every year.
> 

> 
> The story follows a (very) lose modern-day Norman Conquest, so there are a number of character and place names taken from the Anglo-Saxon / Old English. For those scratching their heads about it, a list of the locations are given below.
> 
>   * Brython: Britain; Brythoniad: Briton
>   * Derwent: Derby (technically, the river that runs through Derby)
>   * Bromwicham: Birmingham
>   * Lundenburh: London (technically, City of London)
>   * Gislandune: Islington ("Gīsla's hill")
>   * Tolentone: Tollington Ward (Islington)
>   * Hamestede: Hampstead (as in the Heath)
>   * Caen Wood House: Kenwood House, Hampstead, London
>   * Brixistane: Brixton
>   * Ramsdun: Rampton (the possible inspiration for Repton in the show)
>   * Salians: the [Salian Franks](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salian_Franks), i.e., the French (or at least some of them)
> 

> 
> Lots of notes, and I apologize for any mistakes or errors, and to people I should have thanked and didn't.  
> Thanks for reading. Here’s hoping that you like the story.

Early morning along the ridge was a magical time for Raymond Doyle. The mist usually lay low amongst the tree trunks, dewy diamonds cast over the grass. He would often sneak out of the manor house, when only a few had stirred, and walk over the ridge, sometimes stopping with an item pilfered from the kitchen and sitting down to sketch, just letting himself absorb the moment. He felt alive out here - more alive than he felt most places.

Though not today.

Today, because his father had found his sketches, and deemed them unsuitable for any son of his, today he was to go shooting with his father and engage in a sport meant for a man. And while Raymond enjoyed target practice, he wasn't sure how killing something with overwhelming force for the sport of it would make him more of a man.

He definitely had no wish to harm the magnificent buck wandering the edge of the copse some yards away.

"Now, line 'im up in your sights," his father urged, from behind and to his right.

 _Rather not,_ thought Raymond, though he'd never say that to his father, not with his temper.

"You're the best shot in the shire, boy; this should be nothing for you. Let's see what you can do."

But that was the life of a son of minor landed gentry. Expectations ruled all.

"Think of him as one of those Salian bastards from over the water. Wouldn't want them overrunning the countryside, now would you?"

 _And no wish to harm the Salians minding their business in their own country, either._ Live and let live, he'd always figured.

Maybe there was something he could do...

He focused on his sight line and gently began to pull the trigger. The gun spat out an explosive bang - and the buck was gone almost in a flash.

Perhaps aided by a last-second minute shift to the left.

"Dammit, boy!" Raymond grunted at the cuff to his ear, although it wasn't unexpected. "What is wrong with you? You had him, too. Maybe we'll just have to have you sign you on to a hunt, because you are useless right now. But dammit, I will make a man out of you yet."

Raymond didn't much care; he could avoid animals just as well with a group as he could while alone. But at least he'd managed not hurting the deer.

#

Raymond Doyle and his skill with pencil and paper had learned over time to keep close counsel, although sometimes not close enough.

"Again! What is this, boy? What did I tell you about doodling?"

He had become adept at avoiding sharing that gift with the world, and definitely not ever with his father.

"Raymond? RAYMOND! Get yer arse over here, boy!"

Especially when his father had been in the library with his decanters.

Maybe if he stayed very quiet and hidden, like the mice that came out late at night to skitter across the kitchen floors, his father would eventually fall asleep and the danger would pass.

"Raymond, get out here NOW before you're in even more trouble!"

The danger would pass, as it always did. At least for a short while.

"You and your fooking doodling. I TOLD you about that!"

He, the mice, and his drawings all hid from the light of day, all out of the same sense of self-preservation.

"I will find you, and I will beat that fookin' pansy shit right out of you!"

Raymond already knew he would never give up on drawing. Never. Because it belonged to him, didn't judge him. It _was_ him.

"No son o' mine is going to grow up to be a faggot!"

And one day he'd leave here, him and his drawings, and he'd be able to create them for people. And people would be _happy_ he had.

"GET OUT HERE NOW!"

They would _smile_. He would make sure of that.

One day.

"There you are, you little weasel." Raymond's father, framed by the suddenly opened doorway, was strangely calm, in a way he'd never seen before. "You little sod. Going to teach you a lesson that will sink through even your thick noggin."

One day.

#

The world was blurs and sounds and shapes, but Raymond couldn't quite focus on anything. There was movement near him, but something remained on the edge of his consciousness, not wanting to surface.

"...a shame. Such a beautiful face, too! And so young."

"His da will get out of it. Has the connections, that one does. A shame indeed."

"Shh - I think he's waking up."

"Yes, he looks to be..." Then, louder: "Raymond? Raymond? Can you hear us, dear?"

He tried to open his eyes, which eventually cooperated. Two white shapes stood over him, fuzzy.

"Raymond, dear, can you hear us? Blink twice if you can."

He wanted to do it, he really did, but it was so hard.

One.

Then... two.

"That's wonderful, dear – we're very glad you can hear us. Do you know where you are?"

He wanted to shake his head _no_ , but – for some reason his head wouldn't move.

"Careful, dear – you've had a nasty tumble. Don't try to move your head; just blink. One for no, two for yes."

Blink. _No, I don't know where I am._

He felt a pressure on his hand; one of the women must have taken it into a careful hold. "You're in a sanatorium, a bit out of Derwent. You had a very nasty accident. Do you remember?"

Blink. He didn't _think_ he did, although there were a few things lurking at the edges of his mind.

"You were brought here a few days back; you seem to have been in a fight. You were badly injured, Raymond, I won't lie to you. But you're going to be okay, dear. You're going to be okay."

 _Injured?_ Raymond searched his mind for any memories. All he could recall was his father... another argument about how Raymond didn't live up to his expectations.

"You're safe here, dear, and we'll have you back in fine health in no time."

His father, an argument, no memory of a fight. A sister who was less than convincing about his prospects. And he'd be back in fine health in no time?

Somehow, he didn't believe any of it. No. It looked like from now on he was on his own.

#

"That the Doyle boy, the reprobate from Derwent?" The matron and the doctor looked over at the figure motionless in the dormitory bed.

"Yes, doctor."

"How has he been behaving?"

"Well,..." Matron Edwina Jones, normally the model of efficiency, seemed to be at a loss.

"Matron Jones?"

"Well, reprobate might be a little strong, doctor. He's no angel, for sure; is a bit rough around the edges – the cheek would seem to be proof of that – but there's something there. I can't quite pinpoint it, but despite the reports, there's more to him than just a troublemaker looking for more and more to get into."

"What have you seen?"

"The boy is smart, no doubt of that. Ran rings around Father O'Malley's logic, comes up with all sorts of tall tales about his home, and if you don't watch him take his vitamins, he's got ever more creative ways of avoiding them. But he's taken up with the Nelson boy – you know, the lad in room six who is afraid of everything, won't talk to anyone, nightmares every night? A few nights ago, found young Raymond in his room after dark, talking to him. We took Raymond back to his room, but now young Nelson's nightmares seem to have subsided. So... a mixed bag, but there's something in the lad."

"Hmmm. So our Raymond is a lad of some talents, then. This would bear further watching. Thank you, Matron, for informing me."

"Of course, doctor."

#

Doctor Merton paused at the door to the room to spy on the boy sleeping peacefully on the single occupied bed. Young James Nelson, straight brown hair and big brown eyes in a five-year-old's frame, had been in the home for a while, but hadn't responded to any of the therapies that they had tried. Doctor Merton sighed to himself. _God knows what the boy has been through, that he's in such a state. And the best we can do is try to keep him from getting worse._

The boy shifted in peaceful sleep, moving into a more comfortable position. The doctor noticed a piece of paper flutter from the boy's outstretched hand to the floor. He moved into the room, closer to the bed, over to where the scrap had fallen.

Stooping down, he picked up the slip. It was a drawing of a small boy flanked by two figures, standing before a council house. The boy, who had more than a passing resemblance to Nelson, sported a huge smile as he stood hand in hand with the taller figures, most likely his father and mother. Behind them, smoke chugged from the chimney of the house and a sun stretched its rays over the picture, proof that all was well in the paper world. He'd bet that there was a story behind the well-formed sketch that the staff hadn't been able to coax from the small boy – but _someone_ had.

And there, peeking from behind a tree to the side in a cruder hand, was a smiling, curly-haired figure, slightly larger than the other figures, with a mark on the cheek. _Doyle._

A look of resolution passed over the doctor's face. Maybe there _was_ something he could do for at least one of the boys.

#

Never very trusting at the best of times, Raymond was completely wary of this new location.

Yet another institution, it was the third school in as many months, an imposing edifice holding scores and scores of boys that he had nothing in common with. His main aim was in trying to survive much more than trying to fit in.

His isolation was increased by a new sense of restlessness, of feeling somewhat at sea. In the outside world, which usually remained an unknown _something_ far outside the scope of the school, there were rumours: of hostility, and challenges, and disruptions to the south. Of the king ill, with no clear successor, and a minister forcing talks with the Salians. Several of the guards had disappeared; called away, it was whispered, to join the reserves. Many of the boys seemed excited about the prospect of a war, hoping only that it could last long enough for them to age into playing soldiers – or at least leave the reform school. Most of those seemed to have little to no understanding of what was going on. For Raymond, he felt on the edge of events which would slide inexorably towards a war that would go badly for young men like him.

His artwork reflected his unease: sketches of distress under swirling grey skies of discontent; figures in conflict off to unknown futures. That Doctor Merton would write from time to time, but he was careful not to say too much. He'd taken to hiding out behind a barn at break, even taking up smoking to help destroy the evidence. For at this point he was completely convinced that things would end as they always did – someone would find his drawings, he'd be written up, and finally he'd be expelled for not voluntarily revealing the one thing that belonged to him. And these new drawings, which revealed that much more about him, would only lead to even greater trouble.

But it only made him even more resolved. He'd not be led into surrendering any secrets. It only made him vulnerable.

#

His resolve lasted for twelve days – twelve long days of avoiding all the other boys, doing as he was told, trying to just get through. He'd snuck off for a fag and a quick sketch, to see what he could do to capture the image of a quiet boy at the back of his maths class – not much else to do in there anyway – and so had made it far into the woods behind the storage shed. He'd been able to shape the other boy's nose, and was trying to capture the oddly perfect eyes, when a shuffle in the leaves had him swinging around.

"Whotcha doin'?" The oddly perfect eyes were staring back at him.

"Nuthin." He hunched further over the sketch pad. If he could shift around just right, the other boy might not notice what he was doing, see what he was drawing.

"But I saw you. You was drawin' – sumptink, really concentratin' on it, too, by the look of it."

"It was nuthin, I said."

"Promise not to tell."

"Nuthin' to tell."

"Tell you one of my secrets."

 _Doesn't give up easily, this one._ "Don't believe you have any secrets. Nothing worthwhile, anyway." _Go away._

"I do, you know."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Well,... me father's a royal."

"Oh, right, your Royal Highness."

"But it's true!"

"Yes, Your Highness, I can see King Edward's profile right on you."

"Here, you lads!" One of the instructors, calling from the edge of the wood, was rapidly making his way towards them. "Oh, Christ, it's Armstrong ," Doyle muttered. He glanced at the other boy, who seemed terror-stricken at being found away from where they should have been. "And little help you'll be; you're going to freeze up." A note of determination entered Doyle's voice. "Right, then. Don't say anything, your Royal Highness. Keep your trap shut and leave this to me."

Armstrong had slogged his determined way through the crisp leaves, coming to a halt before them. Doyle had made sure he and the other boy had risen to their feet by time the teacher had reached them, so that they now stood facing him.

"Yes, sir?" Doyle asked sweetly.

"What are you two doing here?" the stern voice of projected authority confronted them. "You know better than to wander off into the woods."

"Well, sir... we're a little embarrassed to tell you. But we weren't doing anything wrong. But can't tell you, sir."

"You darn well will tell me, boy, especially since the two of you know better than to be out here! Let's have it."

"Well, sir, we were," _this had better be good_ , "we were practicing."

"Practicing? Pray tell for what?"

"For the..." Doyle started to mumble.

"For the what, boy? Stop muttering and use the mouth that God intended you to use!"

"For the – school play, sir." Doyle was the model of reluctant responsibility.

"The – school play?" Armstrong hadn't been expecting that, and was taken aback. He was the drama teacher, after all.

"Yes, sir; was afraid we'd be called a bunch of sissies if we did it in front of the other boys, so... we came out here."

"I see, boys, I see." The tone was much softened.

Doyle knew he had him.


	2. Chapter 2

Doyle turned around in his tracks, slowly in order not to miss anything.

Stately buildings ringed the grass rectangle, a certain muted elegance underlying their age. Large trees invited conversation beneath their branches; and indeed, some small clusters of people had taken up the invitations. And incredibly, standing amongst it all, was one Raymond Doyle - no, _Ray_ Doyle, making a fresh start. Disowned, of no set family, from reform school, he was actually at university.

 

Or at least art college. Following the encouragement of Dr. Merton, mostly reluctantly, he had been able to win a scholarship at an art school, where he could see what he could do with his – it almost seemed too presumptuous, too brazen to call it a _talent_ , especially since so few had seen it. But it was what it was, and it had gotten him here.

It was also a way of avoiding the hostilities to the south. The king had died, and that situation had escalated from diplomatic stalemate, to open conflict, and now a raging war. Doyle hadn't kept up with the other boys from the reformatory; but he'd most definitely heard things, and he knew that some of them wouldn't be coming back.

But students, and lads with cracks in their cheeks, were exempt. And the whole altercation - skirmish, really - should be quick enough that that shouldn't change.

Or so the government told them.

Doyle took in a deep breath, absorbing some of the hubbub around him; it soothed him, much like a balm. He would take advantage of the opportunity here, as much as he could. His talent had gotten him a place in this place, had moved him away from the doubts about where he'd sprung from. It was here, much more than anywhere else he'd ever encountered, that Ray felt like he might find a place where he'd belong.

#

"Mr. Doyle."

Ray had been studying the apple's shape: angular, smooth-skinned, curved. It was like nothing he was familiar with. _It's not Matron or Cook or Lewis with the skinny legs. Not sure what I'm supposed to do with this._

"Excuse me, Mr. Doyle, if you don't mind the interruption. Would you care to share with the class what your work is meant to represent?"

Ray turned quickly, brought back to the world of the studio class. The other students snickered at him. _The scholarship boy._ And expecting an answer that wouldn't live up to their standards, that they could mock and deride. He'd learned that lesson early.

Well, damn it. He knew that his work was just as good as anyone else's in that room. And definitely better than that stupid tosspot Davis who thought his shit didn't smell.

He'd worked too hard to stay in to this place, and he wouldn't let the professor – or anyone – take that away from him.

And he _knew_ what the professor would be looking for, what he'd want to hear.

He had an idea.

"Sir. It's my work. The human form."

Warming up now. He _could_ play this game.

"It's basically living, being human. We live in our skins, our shells; they protect us from the outside world, put up defences against those things we can't control. Some of us are comfortable within our skins, some of us are not. Perhaps we've been placed in times or locations that we don't expect and need to figure out how to adjust to. But we all are born with skins we must grow into in our own ways in order to fit into our places in the world."

_There. The scholarship boy knows his place._

"Very perceptive, Mr. Doyle. Your technique may need some work, but your philosophy seems quite in line. Continue on."

And the professor moved on to the next student.

_Bloody arsehole._

#

Done for the day, Doyle was jogging down the steps of the art building when he felt a tap on his shoulder. "Hey, Doyle! Wait up a moment."

He turned, and there was Smith, another student from his class.

Anthony Smith, with sandy hair and deep brown eyes set into a perfect face. Doyle knew most of the girls in their class swooned over him. _Well, he *is* easy on the eyes._ Known as a man about campus, also involved in the dramatics department.

"Hullo, Smith."

"Hello, Doyle. Great performance you gave in there."

"Performance?"

"Johnson's question – he asked you about your drawing, and you basically told him what he wanted to hear. And he didn't even notice."

"Oh, that. Well, it's true, innit?"

"Life's never that simple. And I've seen you handle quite a few people; you're good at it. You know how to survive, I'd say."

"Hunh." Doyle grunted, starting to move off.

Smith put out a hand to stop him. "No, I'm serious. I admire that. Not too many people are able to do that. Most students here have money and connections and treat the place as a sort of finishing school. But you have talent. Many talents. And they don't recognize it at all."

"Really must be going." Doyle was nowhere near comfortable with the direction the discussion was going. And he couldn't figure out just what it was that Smith _wanted_.

"Just admiring you, Doyle, and the way you handle things. Well, see you in class, then."

"Goodbye."

#

Smith started the occasional conversation, and Doyle soon found himself responding. Despite a very public school background, Smith seemed to be a decent sort, driven by passions and sureties about the world around them and its injustices. Doyle found himself becoming comfortable with the man and interested in his message.

They spoke of many things: school, and art, and philosophy; the war, Smith's sister and living in Bromwicham (what little Doyle would share) and where they would go next. Of course, next steps were somewhat imaginary; even without a war raging, Doyle's prospects upon graduating would be few, and definitely would not match up with the opportunities Smith's patrician background would offer. But they enjoyed the back and forth, and Doyle even enjoyed the political discussions around the war. _He's a bit of a patriot, Smith is._ He liked that.

_And still easy on the eyes._

Doyle didn't ponder where that last sentiment came from.

#

They were on their way to the small grocer's across from campus when Smith stopped him short.

"Doyle."

"Yes?" Doyle half-smiled; Smith had a habit of coming to a halt whenever he had a grand pronouncement to make.

"Have you ever thought about acting?"

"What?"

"Acting. We've talked about this before. You are a natural, and our dramatic society is looking for a lead for a new production."

"I hardly -"

"No, hear me out. You _are_ a natural. You handle people effortlessly, you're full of charisma and magnetism, and you get yourself out of all sorts of scrapes by your wits. You're expressive, and you can turn it on and off, almost like a chameleon."

"Great opinion of me. I sound more like a confidence artist."

"You're hardly that! And anyway, it's fun."

"I don't know..."

"You don't have to know. Just come over and try it out a bit, see how it goes. We have our next meeting Tuesday night."

And thus Ray Doyle took a turn, donned a mask, and stepped into the future.

#

Success wasn't the half of it.

Ray looked out over the audience and took a bow; then held out his hand. His co-star Marianne, cool and elegant, placed her hand in his and did a graceful quick dip. Then, together lifting their arms, they gestured to either side. The rest of the cast moved beside them and, as one, they all took a deep bow.

And the crowd went wild. Clapping, stomping, whistling, making enough noise to be heard over the firing on the front lines hundreds of miles away. Worried over the turn the battles had been taking, and thirsty for good news, they were roused by the words, the sentiments, yes; but there was also the _how_ , the way the message had been put together, the personae that the troupe had taken on to guide the audience through the journey. And they all fit in their roles seamlessly.

Up on the stage, Doyle was in a place where he could make people pay attention. He couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

 

Afterwards, once they'd all changed and wiped the makeup off and put everything away and turned off the lights, afterwards, a group of them went to their local, a place normally quiet while most local lads were off at war and the older men too tired after a day in the munitions factory. The bartender knew them, and let them in, and waved them into the back, where the meeting rooms were at and where there was at least the illusion of privacy.

Doyle had been a bit late, wanting to sit alone for a moment and absorb the wonder of the performance; but he'd then gone to catch up with them, striding towards the back room to enter what he supposed would be a ritual of drinking, and celebrating, and reliving the evening. He hoped to manoeuvre his way into sitting next to Smith, where he could feel the warmth of his friend's presence roll off the solid body and spread to include Ray. Doyle wasn't naïve enough to think that Smith might feel the same way, that there was anything to be reciprocated; but he would take what he could get, and enjoy Smith's company for what it was.

As he entered the room, however, he felt as though he'd walked in on something completely different. The others were huddled in deep discussion; a couple jumped as he slid the door back to enter the banquet room. A slight "eep" escaped from further down the table, and Marianne – in fact all of them – had looks of guilt on their faces.

Except for Smith, of course.

He forged ahead, swallowing his apprehension. "Well, if this is how a successful opening night comes across, I'd hate to see a flop."

"S'only Doyle," Marianne _no, she goes by Anna_ breathed in relief, while Smith gestured at him. "Come in, sit down." The tone commanded they continue, disregarding the reaction to Doyle's entrance.

Doyle slid into the empty chair next to Smith, keenly aware that something important was happening. He didn't _think_ it was him; although he couldn't be sure, needed to test the hypothesis. "Something up? Planning to spike the lead's drink so he can't go on tomorrow night?"

"Not that, Doyle, not that at all," Smith answered for them. "You were perfection, and we don't want to tinker with that. No, talking more about how well the play went, and what would be the logical next step."

"Next step? We just had our first performance of the run."

"Yes," Smith replied. "Smash opening, successful play – what is the next thing to go on to?"

"But still a little early to be thinking about that, no?"

"No, it's never too early for some things." Smith lowered his voice. "We are here, we are at war, and men are at the front sacrificing for our country, for us. As students, we don't pick up rifles, don't actively defend. But there must be more that we can do beyond reaching out to a few hundred folk at best, trying to provide them with hope for the future."

Doyle frowned. He loved Brython as much as any one of them, but he wasn't sure what Smith was getting at.

"There are things we can do, Doyle. Dangerous things, things that can have us imprisoned for a long time – or worse. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and it is up to all of us to sacrifice for our country if need be. Lundenburh has now fallen to the Salians, and we know they will push forward and try for the north.

"It's just us five here: Lucy, Anna, Howard, you, and me. We know there are others like us, willing to do what is necessary for our country. We wish to join with them, work against the threat, strike a blow for St. George, St. Andrew, and the Union Jack. Make a statement that will show the Salians we will not be denied!"

He looked straight into Doyle's eyes, with a piercing chestnut stare. "Are you with us, Doyle? Are you ready to join with us for Queen and country?"

Doyle stared back at Doyle, then at the others, one by one. The few people who had regarded him, who had listened to him, who had given him this _gem_ , opened up something inside he had never felt before. He owed them something for that.

And it might be fun, as well.

"Yes," he replied, his voice warming up as the words came tumbling out. "Count me in."

#

They spent time and meetings and pots of coffee reviewing and rereviewing scenarios. Rob a bank. Kidnap an official. Blow up an office. But none of these seemed brazen enough, open enough, to make the statement that they wished to.

The term was passing too quickly, and they were no closer to a decision. They chose a few more plays, patriotic in tone if not direct words, which were as well-received as the first. Word had gotten out about the plays being staged at the college, and especially about a reedy, curly-haired youth whose acting would take the wind's breath away, and their audiences grew as a result. And Ray, perhaps a little struck (and awe-struck) by his friend Smith, became as committed as any one of them to find a way to make a difference.

One night, a few weeks before the end of the term, Doyle stood in the wings watching the performance. His next cue wouldn't be for several minutes, and he used the time to study the set, the movements, the dialogue; the rhythm and flow of the performance underway.

"Did you see him?"

"Eh?" Startled, Doyle quietly jerked. A breath tickled his ear, and he turned to see Smith, intense, pointing into the audience.

"Over there, in the first row, towards the middle. Did you see that man?"

"King Croesus and his retinue? I did, indeed. Someone's slumming a bit tonight."

"Willis. Business owner, fine upstanding citizen and pillar of the community. Also suspected of being a collaborator, selling goods under the table to the enemy."

"Really? How did you find that out?" It was a strain to see properly beyond the footlights into the audience from that angle.

"Oh, I have my sources." Smith smiled enigmatically, tapping his nose.

"Hell doesn't have nearly enough space for their lot. Wouldn't mind sending them there. It's wrong to - "

"Ray."

" - profit from the miseries of the people -"

"Ray!"

"- make money off the backs of starving children -"

"RAY!" Smith hissed at him.  
The stage manager glared at them; they fell silent for a second.

"Ray," Smith continued in a whisper, "you are a genius. You may have figured out the next step."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, who would be the most hated person?"

"The enemy, of course," Doyle replied automatically.

"Who is hidden and protected behind guards and weapons and battle lines. So, then, who is the second most hated?"

"Their sympathizers among our own."

"Exactly. Who live among us, open and unafraid. And exposed."

"So we make an example of one of those collaborators, then."

"Exactly, Ray, exactly."

#

The plot they agreed upon was brazen in its simplicity: find a collaborator and kill him. It would send both a message to the enemy and a sign of hope to the citizens. It would also point out their presence to the Resistance, thus enabling contacts that they had been hoping to make for awhile.

The term came to an end, although there was still much to do in order to realise their goal. Summer closure and economic necessity would have sent them out of the city except for a townhouse owned by Howard's wealthy uncle. Howard had convinced him that he would take care of the house in exchange for spending an enjoyable summer in Bromwicham. He hadn't mentioned that he'd also ask him for funds for as long as he could get away with it. Between the free housing, the wealthy uncle, the others taking part-time jobs as they could, and no little amount of economizing, they had a way to allow them to stay in town and further their plans.

As a result, that planning proceeded much faster - as fast as they could piece it together. They'd narrowed down their target's profile to a military official, nominally Brythonaid but working for whoever paid him the most. Anna would be the main draw, masquerading as a wealthy woman abandoned by her black-marketeer husband due to the war and left to her own devices. She would befriend the official and seduce him - and then they would kill him.

Doyle, as her backup, was to act as her bodyguard and chauffeur.

#

The immediate plan, serviceable enough, was to get Anna into the right circles to meet and associate with the target. When not driving Anna, Doyle would survey the target's home and surroundings, keep an eye on his patterns and habits, and learn close-hand how they could execute the plan and ensure Anna's avenue of escape.

Watch and learn, then execute. Easy as crossing the street – as long as they all remained calm and kept their wits about them. And they all had the motivation to do so.

#

The target they had settled upon – they all referred to him as _The Target_ , it was easier to focus on the task at hand that way – had a real name: William Andrew Phillip Bodie. A shadowy figure, he had access to the highest social reaches of Unoccupied Brython. They had heard he'd been a mercenary at some point, was willing to let himself out for hire to the highest bidder, whoever that might be. He had high contacts, and took risks, but trusted his own instincts enough to dispense with guards. Whoever he was, he was visible enough and powerful enough that his death would most definitely be noticed in all the places they wanted it to be noticed.

Unfortunately, the circles that this W.A.P. Bodie moved in were so high that setting up Anna appropriately for this job was taking almost every penny they had. There were the clothes, the hair, the shabby yet elegant white Rolls Royce they'd borrowed for the summer; plus she needed to eat enough that she didn't look like a street waif. Doyle's situation was relievedly much easier: he merely had to get his unruly curls tamed enough for a chauffeur's cap, start shuttling Anna from place to place, and wonder where the hot summer would end up taking them.

Doyle spent more time than he could have imagined in the big white Rolls Royce, parked at the sides of various roads, as Anna slipped into party after party, establishing her presence. Despite the heat and the boredom, Ray imagined it could have been worse; he at least got to speak with other drivers, and play the role of a man new to Bromwicham, accompanying his mistress from rural Derwent, curious about the world of the big city. A few of the other drivers offered to take him down to their respective locals on their off days, offers that might have their uses, though he would have to be cautious. But he loved the feeling of this role: the excitement and thrill of the performance, the parts that each of them played, and the people who unwittingly moved through the world their troupe had created.

And finally, after weeks of effort, on a late July evening when the sun was long down but the heat clung like a cloak that would not be shrugged off, they were able to make a connection.

Seated in the Rolls, checking some of the car's hydraulic responses while waiting for Anna to appear, Doyle looked up at a movement in the rear-view mirror. Two shapes glided towards the car. One was clearly Anna, more elegant and poised than at any time during their long practices. _She's immersed herself completely. Good._ As he was about to.

He straightened his tie, left the vehicle and moved efficiently to the side door, opening it to allow his mistress to enter.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Bodie. Very kind of you to accompany me to my motor."

The man guiding Anna – no, this was Mrs. Eastaughffe – to the car was tall, broad-shouldered, solidly built. Had blue cornflower eyes and perfect proportions that would stop most on the street. Seemed exquisitely mannered and exquisitely poised, a perfect match to the woman he was accompanying. The eyes swept momentarily over the servant, assessing who he was, whether he was any threat. A second look, unexpected, one which Raymond couldn't interpret, swept over the features – but just as instantly was gone. Raymond was in his role, couldn't be distracted; he filed it away for later.

The blue eyes swung back to the woman beside him; the whole transaction took maybe two seconds, not the hour it had felt to be. "Not at all, Mrs. Eastaughffe. Very much pleased to be able to assist. And you must join us again. My sister has her circle, but she always enjoys entertaining. You must feel free to visit us again, whenever you like."

Mrs. Eastaughffe slid into the car, hand still held by the gentleman until the last possible moment. She nodded her head, he bowed his, and then stepped back, breaking the contact. Raymond closed the door with a heavy snick.

As he turned to move into the driver's seat, the stranger redirected his attention to Ray, riveting him with those impossibly blue eyes. "And your name is..."

"Raymond, Mr. Bodie."

"Raymond. I will be sure to remember that. And you must be sure to take care of your mistress."

"Yes, sir, I always do with Mrs. Eastaughffe."

"Good. I will remember you said that." Mr. Bodie stepped back further onto the pavement.

Raymond started the car and moved off down the street. The figure of Mr. Bodie, watching them leave, receded in the rear-view mirror.

#

"Seemed more than interested. He spent a fair amount of time with me during the reception – although his sister was present for most of it – got me refreshments, walked me to my car. Even spoke to Ray for a few seconds." Anna was almost giddy with their success.

"He actually stood and watched us drive away," Ray added. "I wouldn't think he'd do that unless there was more than polite interest on his mind."

Smith seemed extraordinarily pleased. "Yes, it looks like initial contact was successful. And you now have an open invitation to his sister's entertainments."

"Yes, there's a dinner party set for a week next Saturday. Both he and his sister clearly stated, 'Mrs. Eastaughffe simply _must_ be there,' and so she shall," Anna continued, amused. "Not certain that he specifically shall be there, but I suppose we have to establish a presence either way."

"Yes, Mrs. Eastaughffe simply _will_ be there," Smith smirked in agreement. "And Ray, you can speak with the servants, especially their chauffeur; get more information from him. Have you met him yet?"

"Hudson? No, though I met a few of the other guests' chauffeurs tonight. All willing to help out a kindred soul from the country get settled in a new location. I figured I could play it the same way in the house, find out the layout of downstairs, access points and stairways, and a little more about the target's movements."

"Good idea. Fine, that's enough for tonight. We'll review the plan again tomorrow, see what is and is not working. But very good work tonight, the both of you."

#

Ray turned into the pillow, trying to find some comfort in a shape long past its prime. As sleep eventually claimed him, the sights and sounds of the day crossed his consciousness. _Mr. Target has striking blue eyes._ Evil or not, it was definitely true.

#

The summer moved forward, as did their plans. Doyle found himself accepted, if not warmly welcomed, below stairs at the Bodie mansion as he found himself there with more and more frequency.

Late one balmy evening he found himself standing beside the car. Mrs. Eastaughffe already had been in the house several hours, and in fact he expected the car to be called for in the next few minutes. Most of the other guests had already left, and the Rolls was one of the few cars remaining outside. _Maybe this means Anna's had good progress tonight. Hope so; Howard can ask his uncle for money only so many more times before that well runs dry._

He got back in the car, all thoughts of cleaning or checking the engine abandoned. Despite their work and persistence, it _had_ been a long summer, with no certainty over whether their plan would succeed. Mr. Bodie seemed eager enough, but would only go so far with Mrs. Eastaughffe, making all sorts of hints but never pursuing them. Doyle didn't think they'd been discovered; if they had, he was sure he wouldn't be sitting in the car, free to leave whenever he wished – but he couldn't fathom what was going on behind those vivid blue eyes. He would never take up with a traitor; of course not. But in another world, if the man had had a twin, _and_ the twin was devoted to his country, Ray would be more than happy to know more about him...

"Raymond?"

Ray jerked his head up at the soft, deep sound of his full name.

 _Speak of the devil._ The man in question stood before him.

"Raymond, correct? It wasn't my intention to startle you. Were you asleep?"

"Mr. Bodie." Ray cleared his throat, carefully proceeding. "Yes, it's Raymond; and no, I wasn't sleeping, sir; was just thinking... but why are you out here? Is Mrs. Eastaughffe okay, should I come to the house?"

"No, no, she's quite fine, just looking for a dropped earring. She'll be out in a minute. You... are you okay? Did you get something to eat? There are plenty of provisions for all the servants."

"Yes, sir, the kitchen made sure all the drivers had more than enough. Quite filling it was, too."

"Well,... good, then." For a second he seemed about to say something else, and then a more neutral expression covered his face. "As I mentioned, Mrs. Eastaughffe will be on her way out in a minute. Time to start the car up and bring it round."

"Yes, sir. Will be round right away." Ray's wrist twisted and the engine purred to life. When he looked up, Mr. Bodie was looking at him, that odd look on his face again. It just as quickly fell off.

"Very good, Raymond, very good." Doyle watched him leave, to pass through the entry and be swallowed up by the mansion.

He had met the enemy, head on.

#

They were sat around the large table they used for meals. Anna and Howard sat along one edge, Smith at the head, Doyle along the other edge. Lucy leaned against the wall, bleakly staring out the window into the distance.

"This has got to speed up or sumpin'," Howard blurted out.

The remains of a meal - bowls, napkins, greasy newsprint, batter crumbs, a few stray bits of chips – lay strewn across the tabletop. The money was running low – again; and they'd shared an order of fish and chips – again.

"Or sumpin'," Howard repeated, tapping a nervous staccato against one table leg.

Lucy walked over to the stove and turned the hob on underneath the kettle.

"'Gettin' tired of yer profligate ways,' Uncle says. 'Once or twice is fine, but no need to get a taste for the talent,' he says."

Silence among the long faces.

"'Going to cut ye off, so's you can head back home,' he says."

"Enough, Howard, we got it already." _Your rich uncle won't be of any more help_ , was well understood.

"Well, but if Anna just gets Mr. Bodie to get a leg over, we can kill him and won't have to worry about it anymore, now can't we?"

"Shut it, Howard," Ray growled. "This is a lot more delicate than you're making it out to be. Not that simple at all."

"Yeah, Doyle, and you'll just ride in and protect the lady's virtue, now won't you? Or does that not interest you? Heard about you, alright."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Doyle growled. _Oh, not letting *that* go by._

" **Enough** , gentlemen," Smith broke in. "Spats aren't going to get us out of this situation. Now, Howard – how much do we have left?"

"About 100 pounds," the man grumbled.

"Lucy – how long will that last us?"

"Two, maybe three weeks."

Smith sighed. "Okay, we'll have to come up with a way to make that last, or add to it."

"Bank robbery?" Howard looked hopeful.

"Has any of us every worked in a bank? Know about the security there?" Lucy spat out in derision.

"Well, what do we know about killin' somebody?" Howard retorted.

"What do we *need* to know about killing somebody? We get them inside, we off 'em. No audience like there'd be in a bank," Lucy pushed back.

"Enough, you two," Smith broke in. "We are not going to rob a bank. But we are going to get through this."

Doyle looked around at his compatriots. They still looked sober, but there was a new glimmer of hope over the proceedings. Smith hadn't come up with a solution, but he had the strength of character to move them.

Doyle envied him that kind of power.

#

"So, Anna, tell me again – what happened during the evening?" Smith was reviewing each step the operation had taken. As a partial participant in the events, Doyle sat with the two of them.

"He was quite attentive. Got me drinks, kept up a constant discussion. 'Charming conversationalist,' I think you'd call him. When I lost my earring – and god knows, couldn't leave without finding _that_ , we'll need that money back rather sooner than later – he helped searched, and he went down to tell my chauffeur I was delayed. But I'm not sure I understand it. He acts like he's moving towards being my beau, he does all the 'right' things, but he doesn't actually go beyond that."

She paused, thoughtful, even-voiced even for the implications behind the words. "Do you think he's on to us?"

#

It was a beautiful day: a strong, warm sun set him alight; a light, teasing breeze brushed along his skin. It was truly perfect weather. But Doyle, Doyle felt nothing but cold. A cold dread that soaked through his bones, propelled by the state of their operation.

Things were desperate. They basically had no money left. Food had been down to almost nothing for the past few weeks. Anna had to eat because Mrs. Eastaughffe couldn't seen to be starving, but it made her miserable and secretive, hiding out in her bedroom to have her share, and caused resentments in the others.

Doyle had taken to spending a lot of time out walking. Walking around the neighbourhoods, walking to the shops, walking just to get out of the house. He was disappointed at how quickly their cohesiveness had broken down with just a bit of adversity. They had all gone in to this knowing it wouldn't be easy, that sacrifice would be necessary; after all, killing, as justified as it might be, went against everything society had drilled into all of them. They had all responded positively, willing to sacrifice everything – including their very souls – for the greater good. And yet here they were, falling prey to pettiness.

He looked up, to notice he was back at the apartment block, the front door bearing down upon him. Well, nothing for it; he'd have to go in at some point. He moved his legs, heavy with dread, and made his way back inside.

#

He opened the door and instantly sensed something was in the air. Four heads swung in unison at the sound of his entry, with various levels of excitement splayed across their faces.

"Where the hell have you _been_ , Doyle?" Howard whinged. "Been waiting on you the better part of an hour. Mr. Bodie called, he wants to meet with Mrs. Eastaughffe. Get yer arse in gear."

"Oy." Doyle was flabbergasted, although it felt almost anticlimactic, too little too late. The others seemed energized enough, on edge, ready to dedicate themselves once again. Doyle, though, was concerned that if whatever was happening didn't pan out, they wouldn't be able to survive the letdown. He wondered if Smith felt the same way.

The starched shirt and thin black tie, the grey trousers, the jacket and the cap; in just a few minutes Doyle was dressed and ready to go. Anna, having had a head start, had already transformed herself into Mrs. Eastaughffe, looking cool and distant. A few words of direction from Smith, and they were headed out.

They hustled into the car, which Doyle turned over and pulled into the road. Traffic was moderate, so there was no blaming their lateness on delays out of their control. Doyle imagined that Anna would think of something.

"So, what happened while I was gone?" This was different, out of the norm, too; they usually slid into their roles as soon as they had left the house, stayed in character until they were once again through the great oak door and in with the rest of the troupe. By this point, the transformation into the woman of means and her trusted servant should have been well underway.

"He called," Anna answered. "Said it was a beautiful day and he wanted to spend it with a beautiful woman, not in yet another social obligation with the same set. Wanted to just talk, him and me."

"So what do you think?" He left it to her to fill in the _what about_.

"I think we're at a point where he might take it a bit further, might feel comfortable enough to take the initiative. I'm not so worried about giving him a long-term reason to be interested; after all, it would just take one meeting, one session of being hidden away from the world, and our problems are over. He's gone, and we're gone."

"Well, that's true, but you have to get him to be interested. A man like that, probably doesn't have many women interested in him for himself. They love the power and money, the social advantage of being around such a man. He can have one of those a penny – but getting a woman who looks at _him_ , well, that's a little more difficult."

"Don't worry about it, Ray, I've got it under control. He's a fun-loving man, likes to be in control of his surroundings without too much fuss, and that's what I'm giving to him. At least until I get him alone."

She had a bitter smile at that. "And then he can learn what it's like to lose a sister to one such as him."

They'd travelled some distance by this point, the restaurant where he was to drop Anna off just a few streets away. "I don't know, Anna, not sure how I'd read it..."

"But this is my part of the operation, and it seems to be working well enough. Having lunch with him, now aren't I? Would call that solid progress, even. _You_ just be sure to be there when push comes to shove. You were the last to join, anyway."

"Of course I will." Annoyed at the implication, Doyle wanted to get back at her. "And what does that mean, anyway? I may have been last, but am still a little more involved in this than some. After all, I have been driving your carcass around Bromwicham through this entire episode." He swung the wheel hard and they moved into the left lane. A horn sounded behind them.

#

The door swung open and Mrs. Eastaughffe glided out, crossing the pavement to enter the plush interior that Ray could just see behind her.

It had been a near thing, that. The argument had continued in the car, until they'd found themselves outside the imposing facade of an upper-end Italian restaurant. Ray had pulled the car up to the pavement before the entrance and seethed as Anna appeared in the rear-view mirror with a disgusted sneer across her face. Neither seemed to realise that they'd arrived until the restaurant's doorman gracefully opened the door.

They both snapped into their roles, their expressions instantly changing. _Shit, we're not ready, anyone can tell something's wrong. We could lose the entire setup in an instant like this._ A bit guiltily, he leapt out and ran around the car to the opened door.

"Ma'am," he bowed slightly. Anna slowly moved from the car. Doyle admired how quickly she had pulled herself together, although he could see around her edges that she wasn't quite _there_ yet, wasn't quite completely Mrs. Eastaughffe.

"Thank you, Raymond." And with that – no word about what he should do, whether he would leave or await her return – she moved off into the recesses of the building to meet her lunch companion.

 _Damn, too close and too unprofessional._ Ray watched her move away beyond the door that the doorman held open, concerned that she wouldn't be able to move beyond their argument and control herself. With a lump of apprehension in his chest, he returned to the driver's seat to move the car away.

#

"He's leaving, you know."

Anna had been silent for the entire trip back – not the silence of unwinding from a performance, the release of tension that presaged the mania of readjusting to regular life. No; this was a tenseness, a review of what might've gone off or wrong, what could have been done differently. Doyle thought about asking her; but, given the earlier exchange, and knowing what it was like after a performance, never mind whether or not it had gone well, he decided to leave her alone for now. He was sure whatever it was would come out once they were back with the others.

And even that had taken some time. Mrs. Eastaughffe had rushed into the bedroom, muttering that she wanted to get changed, and Smith had ended up commanding her out of the bedroom, to face them as flannel-pyjama'd Anna – but she'd finally faced them all, took a deep breath, and blurted out,

"He's leaving, you know."

There'd been disbelief, and questions, and confusion. Smith had quieted them down enough for Anna to go on in explanation. "He's been transferred, has a new position. His sister is also relocating. He's leaving tomorrow, had appreciated our association enough that he wanted me to know personally. Invited me to find him if I ever had the opportunity. Wanted me to know too that he wished there'd been time for more."

She turned to Doyle. "Even wanted me to tell you to take good care of me." She was dismissive, although not surprising given their earlier discussion.

"Damn," said Lucy with finality.

"So what the 'ell are we supposed to do now?" blurted out Howard. "No money, no target, no time to just go in and kill him – what the 'ell do we do? And why didn't you speed it up, Anna? Enjoying the high life too much?"

"Howard, stop it," cut in Smith. "If Anna had just gone charging in we wouldn't have gotten even this far. We all knew this wouldn't be easy, and even if we did everything right we couldn't control every single thing that could possibly happen. So he leaves without us being able to strike. We withdraw, we regroup, and we form a new plan. But I will not allow you to abuse Anna. She was on the front line with this, she was in the most danger of all of us. She got us very far in the face of a number of difficulties."

Doyle looked at the faces around the room. There was undeniably extreme disappointment; but despite that, there was still belief in themselves and their broader mission.

 _Amazing how he can do that._ Doyle would do a lot for that kind of power.

#

The evening was bitterly quiet. For dinner they had spooned up a stew of root vegetables of indeterminate source that Anna, in a fit of activity and wanting to be alone, shut herself in the kitchen to prepare. Lucy and Howard sat at the large table, playing endless games of a listless sort of rummy, with a minimum of noise. Smith sat at the desk to the side of the room, working out something on several sheets of paper. _Our next act,_ assumed Doyle.

There was a knock at the door.

They looked at each other with the same expression. _No one should be knocking at this time of the night._

"Get your gear and answer the door," Smith hissed at Lucy.

The knock sounded again, more insistent.

"Coming, sir." Lucy yelled, grabbing her robe and moving towards the door.

"Smith! Open up, I know you're in there!"

Lucy froze.

"Hold on," Smith murmured, amused. "I think I know who that is."

#

"Doyle, keep an eye out for any others."

Ray, standing behind the front door, nodded.

Smith opened the door and studied whoever was standing on the threshold.

"Bentham."

"What the hell, Smith." A large, bulky figure barreled his way across the threshold.

"Why, Cousin Gerald. This is quite a surprise. What brings you here?"

"Don't bullshit me, Geoff."

 _Cousin Gerald? Geoff??_ Doyle, studying Smith's features from behind the door, suppressed a snort. _Well, that's a surprise._

"What the hell are you up to, Geoff?"

"Why don't you come in, Gerald; we'll sit down and talk." The broad-backed figure took off in the direction that Smith indicated, while Smith lagged slightly behind and jerked his head at Doyle. _Do what I said and keep a watch._ Doyle nodded briefly back.

Doyle could hear words floating back from the living room, the scraping of chairs across the bare wooden floor. This didn't look good, didn't look good at all. The voice sounded familiar, too – was it possible that all this time Smith was related to someone in Mr. Bodie's inner circle? What the hell were they supposed to do with _that_? Just send The Traitor an invitation to identify them all?

There was a grunt, then sounds of a scuffle. Doyle ran down the short hall to the doorway of the living room.

Lucy stood between him and the visitor, but Doyle could see the feet flailing to the side. Howard was behind the man; from what Doyle could see, he'd gotten him into a chokehold in an attempt to subdue him. A knife flashed up, then down.

And then there was blood, blood flowing everywhere.

"Get back over there, dammit! Keep an eye on the door!" Smith bodily turned him and pushed him down the hall, then closed the door to the living room. Doyle heard the metallic snap of a key turning in the lock.

"Dammit," he muttered, more scared than at any prior time during their charade. He tried the knob, but it wasn't yielding.

He ran back to the door, but didn't risk opening it to see if any neighbours or passers-by might have heard noises and decided to investigate – or even worse, to call the police. He wasn't sure _what_ he or they risked; this was not in the plan, they had not covered this in any way during their discussions or planning.

But they _had_ discussed killing The Traitor himself. What did he _think_ they had planned on doing? Blowing on the man and having him topple over?

At any rate - no, he did not like this. He understood the importance of covering their tracks, even if the current operation had failed. And failed through no fault of their own. They had to keep the integrity of the group intact for future activities. And if they had been discovered, they had to deal with it.

 _This is for the greater good._ He felt mollified about the situation, if not better.

There was a crash, and then the noises subsided. And none of the neighbours had come over about the noises.

_If the neighbours are that oblivious... this might actually work._

The lock clicked and the door opened. "Oy, Doyle! Get over here."

Doyle came into the room, then stopped. There was blood everywhere, even more than before. Smith and Howard were covered in it; Lucy was fairly well spattered. Anna stood at the kitchen door, another knife in her hand. She had been in the kitchen, after all.

"Good, we're all here." Smith sounded as calm as he always did, as though he'd just gone out for a stroll. "Doyle, don't get too close; you'll need to stay presentable, in case someone comes to the door. Did anyone stop by?"

"No, no one at all." Doyle was amazed that his voice didn't waver.

"Good. If they do, just tell them our table collapsed and we'll have it looked at in the morning. Howard, Lucy – you need to help me move the body," _body_ "we'll take it down the back. We have a place to dispose of it. And then we'll clean up the apartment. We've been compromised, so we'll have to move tonight. Any questions?"

The four of them just nodded, not thinking beyond what was necessary to complete the tasks they'd been ordered to carry out. "Keep cool, keep calm and we'll get through this." Doyle took a deep breath and, shutting the door to the living room, made his way back to the entryway to the door to continue his guard duty.

No one came to the apartment; he supposed that they either were minding their own business _maybe they think someone has come to the attention of the authorities and don't want to get involved_ or truly hadn't heard anything. With the racket they'd been making, Doyle was surprised they hadn't heard it down in Lundenburh.

After about forty-five minutes, during which Doyle had had them escaped and captured about twenty different ways, the door to the living room reopened and Smith stuck his head through. "Okay, Doyle, you can come back in." He stepped back in to the room.

Some semblance of order had been imposed; the blood was up and the furniture straightened out. A vase that Doyle had rather liked, which had sat on one of the side tables, was no longer there. And everyone had changed clothing. The cover on the sofa had changed, as well.

It was as though they'd done the weekly tidying, nothing more.

#

Four pairs of eyes were tightly focused on Smith.

"We have passed our first test. Gerald was my cousin. He was also a traitor. He, in fact, _worked_ for The Traitor.

 _As an errand boy, from what I saw_ , Doyle mused. _I was below stairs, after all. And a nobody, at the bottom of the pecking order._

"But we were successful in eliminating him. One step closer to reclaiming our country!

"However, the government will want to assert its authority and take its revenge." His tone changed, became harsher. "As a result, we must leave, split up and go our separate ways for a while until it is safe again.

"We all know how to reach each other. Go, now. Leave this place; go visit your grandparents in the country, stop in with your sister who married and moved away. Be sure to remove all traces of your existence here. Carry the joy of our success with you, and we will reunite presently.

"Go ahead – let's get moving."

The others moved off to get their belongings packed and ready to go. Doyle remained in the room with Smith, who was gathering up some papers into a satchel.

"I ran into your cousin a few times while I was in the traitor's mansion, in the kitchen. He was little more than an anonymous face. I doubt the traitor knew he existed. And that seemed a somewhat sad way to go."

"We were not close." Smith retained a hard edge to his voice. "To the outside, his death will appear to be a random act or a robbery gone wrong. But it had its uses, it gave some strength to the group. That can't be completely discounted."

Doyle wasn't sure he'd seen this resolute Smith so prominent before. And he didn't want to know what they'd done with the body. "What happens next?"

"We'll separate for a while, make a few more contacts, come back stronger than before. We may not have struck the target we'd hoped, but we have made a statement, however reduced in scope it might be. And we'll be able to go forward with more confidence in the future.

"Don't worry, Doyle. Parts of this may look like a setback, but it's anything but. All movements have to start somewhere." He finished packing his papers, closed his satchel. "So where will you go?"

"Not sure, not many places for me to go. Mother's dead, don't get along with Father. The relatives are more likely to see me as a drain than anything else. Any suggestions?" he half-joked. _I'd go with you._

"Possibly find some friends, or continue on with school. But just lay low for awhile. We've probably avoided any tie-in with the intruder, but we should make sure of that.

"C'mon, Doyle, best to pack now. We don't have much time before dawn and we need to be gone before the sun is up."

"Okay, getting my things, don't have much anyway. And – Geoff?"

"It's Geoffrey Anthony, though I haven't gone by that in years."

"Okay, then - Smith. Smith?"

"Yes, Ray?" _Will miss all this._ "Good luck, see you sometime soon." A nod as though for an old mate.

Smith smiled, perhaps the only truly authentic smile Doyle had seen on him. "Don't make it sound like forever! We'll be back together soon. You – can't do it without you; you're an incredible actor. I made you the chauffeur to help Anna develop her own confidence. Next time, you'll have an even bigger role, the role of a lifetime."

"The role of a lifetime." Doyle grinned, although he felt wounded inside. Wherever he landed, there wouldn't be much acting involved.


End file.
